


It's Not Nothing

by Calacious



Category: Roswell (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Male Friendship, Rape Aftermath, Underage Drinking, potentially triggering content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 21:25:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12491180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: Kyle remembers the last time it happened, the stale smell of beer and sweat clogging his nostrils, the feel of hands on his body, and a steel blade against his throat. When it happens again, Michael is there to pick up the pieces.





	It's Not Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> This is imperfect, and the ending does not show a complete recovery. I believe that recovery is, more often than not, a lifelong process. It's a bit summary-ish at the end, and I typically dislike when that happens in stories, but this seems to be how this story wants to be told. 
> 
> I apologize for any errors in this story. This is set toward the end of the series, before the books that were written about them being on the run together.

"Come on, man, it'll be fun," Brady says.

Kyle clamps down on his tongue, nods. It's been months since he's been out. Months since that incident in the bathroom of Mick's Bar where Brady and some of the other guys had written the words:  _ For a good fuck, dial...and ask for Kyle.  _ Months since he’d been shoved into the stall with the broken door, and...Kyle stops thinking about it, pushes the unwanted memories aside, and nods.

They aren't even going to the same bar, so the chances of something like that happening to him again are slim to nonexistent. 

Still, his gut clenches and his palms are sweaty, and he's constantly looking over his shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that he's being watched. He jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder. Feels stupid when it's just the coach.

"Sorry, Valenti, didn't mean to startle you." The coach's breath feels warm, reeks of beer, makes Kyle's stomach churn.

"It's okay," Kyle says, rubs his thumb around the lip of his beer bottle. He's taken a sip, it's still cold, sweating, leaving a wet ring on the counter. "Just... jumpy, I guess."

"You nervous about the game?" Coach asks.

Kyle shrugs, nods, because it's the easy way out, tries not to flinch when the coach slings an arm around his shoulders. It's not anything out of the ordinary. Coach is just being coach. He's not a rapist, isn't trying to get into Kyle's pants.

Nevertheless, Kyle shrugs the coach off and chugs the rest of his beer, doesn't say no when the coach buys him another. He does, however, take a seat with some of his teammates, nurses the beer, drinks another.

Before he knows it, he's feeling tipsy. Gone is his fear from earlier, and he heads to the bathroom, on his own. 

He's quick, half-terrified that events will repeat themselves, and breathes a little easier when he makes it out of the room without being assaulted. He relaxes, starts to enjoy himself, and drinks until he can barely walk straight. It keeps the awful memories away, makes it easier for him to enjoy himself.

Kyle heads to the bathroom, his bladder so full that it feels like it's going to burst. 

"Didn't think I'd be seeing you again," the voice startles Kyle, and he turns around so quickly that his head spins. 

No one's there, and Kyle splashes water on his face. His eyes are weary, bloodshot. He's drunk. He grips the edge of the sink and holds on until the room stops spinning. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin pasty white and clammy with cold sweat.

The sound of a lock clicking into place causes Kyle's heart to hammer in his chest, and he pushes off from the sink, his legs feeling like jelly. He's alone in the small bathroom, and the door is locked, but he doesn't remember locking it. He must've locked it though, must've imagined the voice and the clicking of the lock. 

"Turn around," the voice sounds the same as it did, all those months ago. "Now, or I'll kill you."

Kyle turns around, grips the edge of the sink, and wonders if he'll survive this time. Wonders if the feel of the blade, cool and sharp against his windpipe, the zick of the zipper is all in his head. 

Has no time to brace himself for the assault, no time to bite back the scream that's muffled by his attacker's hand. He bites the hand, shoves back, but that only makes things worse. 

His eyes, filled with tears and pain, stare back at him from the mirror. He can't make out the features of his attacker. They're obscured by the man's dark hood. The blade of the knife reflects the buzzing light above them, glints, and bites into Kyle's neck, creating a thin line of blood. Kyle feels nothing.

Kyle stops fighting, grips the edge of the sink so tightly that it's a wonder he doesn't pull it out of the wall when the man thrusts and shoves Kyle forward, and jerks his hips backward. He's sick and can't breathe and it hurts, but Kyle focuses on a crack in one of the tiles beside the sink. 

He whimpers when the blade of the knife digs in a little deeper, and the man's thrusts come quicker and harder. The man's breath on his neck is hot and putrid. Stinks of beer, sweat and cigarette smoke. The sounds he makes -- grunts of effort and pleasure -- make Kyle cringe. 

Half-uttered words and encouragements for his victim, make Kyle cry and beg against the hand for the man to stop. Kyle raises his eyes to the mirror, and, for a split second he sees eyes that don't belong to him. They're dark, soulless eyes. Eyes that make him cringe and look away.

It lasts for an eternity. The dull pain that seems to be happening outside of him. The blade against his neck. The man at his back, raping him. And then it's over, and the hand's removed, and the blade, and Kyle's hold on the sink is the only thing keeping him upright, his breath coming in desperate gasps. 

The zick of the zipper is loud. The loss of the pain of being filled is so sudden that Kyle loses his grip on the sink and falls. He's caught by the man who'd assaulted him, dragged to one of the stalls and is carefully positioned so as to look like he's collapsed beside the toilet because he's had too much to drink.

His body aches and his head spins and he doesn't move. Not even when the man whispers in his ear, "See you around, Kyle. You're a good fuck. Just like the graffiti on the wall at Mick’s says. Maybe I’ll give you a call sometime.You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sugar?" He laughs, pats Kyle on the cheek, and then leaves.

Kyle shivers, tries to push himself up off of the floor, but his arms are weak and shaky and he can't move. He hears the lock on the door, the sounds of the bar filtering in when his attacker opens it and slips out.

He sits there, propped up by the toilet seat, shivering, for a long time. He hurts, and he can't string a single thought together, can't make sense of what happened, of the man's harsh words. His stomach is the first part of him to gain some semblance of control over itself, and before he knows what’s happening, he’s kneeling over the toilet bowl and retching into it until there’s nothing left but a dark yellow something that makes his stomach hurt, and his throat feel like it’s on fire. 

He feels hands on him, tries to fight them off, because he’s certain that the man’s come back for him, that it’s going to happen again, that he won’t be able to stop it, and that this time the man will kill him. He’d almost welcome death right now, because it would take away the pain and the humiliation of what's happened to him. 

“Kyle, you okay? Hey, Kyle? C’mon, it’s time to go.”

He recognizes the voice, but he can’t put a name to it. Can’t make sense of the hands and the voice and the room that’s spinning around him. The lights are too bright, the tiles on the bathroom floor are too hard, and he thinks that maybe he smells like puke. 

“Fuck, Maria was right, you’re sloshed,” the voice says. 

Maria? Kyle doesn’t remember seeing her at the bar. Of course, he hadn’t been looking for her either. 

Kyle can’t hold his head up, doesn’t see the sense in it, and he can’t follow the words that the voice is saying as it continues to speak. He feels the room shift and tilt and he tries to shove the dirty, groping hands away from him, tries to fight back the way he hadn’t been able to fight back earlier, but the hands are stronger and he’s helpless, and his legs feel like jello, and the hands have him now, they’re shoving at him, pushing him, and he can feel himself slipping away. 

"Fuck," the voice whispers. Kyle can feel breath tickle against his throat and he wants to disappear.

"C'mon," the voice says, and he's pulled upright.

"No," Kyle's voice is soft, it doesn't carry far past his lips. Doesn't carry to the ears of whoever has him.

"Le- me go," Kyle slurs, tries to shove his captor away, but is merely gripped tighter for his efforts. 

"Shit." There's hot breath against the back of his ear, and Kyle struggles to get free.

"Kyle, hold still," the voice commands and he's shaken. "Shit, I'm just trying to help. I should'a said no to Maria when she told me to come get you after one of your football buddies called her."

_ Michael _ . The name pops into his head, and Kyle struggles to identify the person holding onto him, twisting in the other person's arms, and nearly ending up on the floor for his efforts. He has to make sure that it's Michael and not whoever had attacked him. Not that he knows the identity of his attacker.

"Michael?" Kyle questions with lips that feel like rubber, and a tongue that sticks to the roof of his mouth. He's suddenly exhausted, and sags in the other teen's arms when Michael nods.

"Yeah, you okay, Kyle?" Michael asks.

He shudders, can't find his tongue again, so he nods. He's not okay, far from it, but Michael doesn't need to know that. He's a little surprised that Michael is here, looking for him in the first place. They aren't exactly friends.

"Let's get you out of here," Michael says, grunting as Kyle leans against him when his feet refuse to cooperate. 

"Sorry." Kyle sighs. He lays his head on Michael's shoulder when a wave of dizziness overcomes him, and closes his eyes against the light of the bathroom, which is too bright.

It feels like he's floating. He can feel Michael's breath, warm on his cheek, as the half-alien carts him out of the bathroom. Barely registers his teammates' goodbyes when they pass them. 

"You drive here, Valenti?" Michael questions when they reach the parking lot.

The sun's gone down, and the air around them is quiet and still. Kyle shivers, and presses closer to Michael, wonders if the teen has always been this warm. If he's always generated this much heat, if it has something to do with his alien heritage, or if the warmth comes from his human side. 

"Warm," Kyle says, and smiles up at Michael. The teen is frowning,

"Yeah, and you're drunk." Michael doesn't sound amused, but he doesn't push Kyle away either. 

Kyle wonders if Michael would push him away if he knew what had happened to him in the bathroom. If Michael would see him as weak and dirty if he knew the truth.

"You got your car here?" Michael repeats his question, scans the parking lot for Kyle's red convertible. 

Kyle digs into his pockets, pulling them inside out and finding nothing, not even the wallet he’d brought with him. Panic fills his chest, clouds his mind, and he’s clinging to Michael, blind and terrified, heart hammering so loudly that he can’t hear anything else. 

He’s certain that the man who hurt him has his wallet, the keys to his car and house, though Kyle doesn’t remember driving there that night, and he thinks that maybe Brady had given him a ride. Even knowing that the man may not have his keys is of little relief to him, because Kyle knows that the man  _ does _ have his wallet which contains his license that has the address to his home on it. 

There are other things in his wallet too, a couple of condoms, which he’s never used, will probably never use, because just the thought of having sex makes him sick to his stomach. A small amount of cash, which he’d earned and had earmarked to spend on something other than bills that his father was currently unable to pay because he was out of work. He had the number for a girl at school, Linda, written on the back of an old receipt. 

“Hey, Kyle, it’s okay,” Michael’s saying. 

It’s not okay, though. Will  _ never  _ be okay, because now the man knows where he lives, and Kyle will never be safe again. When his father  _ is _ home, he’s drunk, and passed out on the couch -- no real protection or help for Kyle. 

Most days, and nights, though, Kyle’s on his own, because when his father isn’t drinking himself into a stupor, he’s out helping Max and the other half-aliens, not at home with Kyle. There are many places where his assailant can hide, many places where he can sneak up on Kyle and hurt him again if he wants to.

“Kyle, relax,” Michael says, he presses a napkin to the cut on Kyle’s neck. He’s being much more gentle than he usually is with anyone, even Maria. 

Something inside of Kyle snaps at Michael’s words, and he pushes away from the other teen, landing on his ass. It hurts, but he scrambles to his knees and crawls away from Michael, the rocks of the parking lot biting into the palms of his hands and his knees, even through his jeans. He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t care. He just needs to get away from the hands, and the bar, from everything and everyone. 

“Kyle, what the fuck? Come back here, man.” Michael’s voice is filled with anger and frustration, and Kyle can hear his feet crunching over the rocks as Michael follows after him, bloodstained napkin crushed in his fist. 

“Kyle.” Michael’s voice is softer when he reaches him, and he kneels down to finish dabbing at the cut, frowning as he examines it. 

“Here, press this to your neck,” Michael says. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me how that happened?”

Shaking his head, Kyle stiffens when Michael grips his shoulder, and whimpers, tries to get away, but Michael pulls him to his feet, and turns him around, pushes him in the direction of Maria’s car. Kyle hopes that she’s not there. He won’t be able to handle her questions and scoldings right now.

He lurches forward on numb feet, his knees locking together in an attempt to keep them from turning to jell-o. He hurts, and he’s tired, and he wants to be swallowed up by the earth, or to disappear into thin air. 

Michael prods him forward, none too gently, and Kyle finds that comforting, because it means that the half-alien doesn’t know what’s happened to him. That he thinks Kyle’s so drunk that he can’t see straight. 

Kyle wishes he was that drunk. Wishes he could go back to the bar and drink himself stupid and insensible, that he could drink away the memories of what’s happened to him.

Michael shoves him into the passenger seat of the car, pulls the belt across his lap, and then slams the door shut. The sound reverberates through Kyle’s skull, makes him feel dizzy and lost, and more alone than he’s ever been.

Michael casts a disgusted look in his direction as he puts the car into gear. “I will never understand humans,” he says.

It registers, belatedly, that Michael’s taking him home, and Kyle balks at the idea, because he doesn’t want to go home, not with his attacker knowing where he lives. 

Not with fear and shame clawing at his gut, making him hate himself, because he’s supposed to be stronger than this, stronger than what’s happened to him. He should’ve been able to fight back, stop it from happening. 

Hell, he’d been shot a year ago, had died, and been brought back to life by Max. This, what happened tonight, a repeat of what had happened to him several months ago, shouldn’t make him afraid to go home and sleep in his own bed.

He’s an athlete. One of the top all star athletes in the state. He’s someone to watch, someone that recruiters look at. He’s got a future ahead of him, and yet he’s afraid to go home and spend the night alone.

He’s not supposed to be weak, not supposed to let others beat him, not supposed to be...to be...to be...raped. 

“Here we are,” Michael says, car idling outside of Kyle’s house. 

Kyle gets the sense that he’s expected to get out of the car now, but he doesn’t move. Can’t move.

His father’s car is gone. He’d known it would be. 

His own car is parked on the street, top down. It makes him feel naked, vulnerable, like someone could be lurking within the back seat, waiting for him. 

His house is dark, and Kyle wonders if his father remembered to pay the electric bill with the money that he’d left on the counter, of if his father had used it to buy alcohol instead. Wonders if, when he enters the house, he’ll be able to turn any lights on, or if he’ll have to navigate the halls, the stairs, the shadowy corners, in the dark. 

“Kyle, get out of the car,” Michael says. His voice is hard, impatient, and Kyle shrinks back from it.

His hands shake as he reaches for the handle. He doesn’t want to get out of the car. Doesn’t want to walk into his dark home, alone. Doesn’t want to leave Michael, even if the teen hates him.

It dawns on him, as he’s fumbling with the car door, fingers not working properly, that he doesn’t have the keys to the front door. He’d locked it when he left earlier that night, knowing that his father wasn’t due back until Monday afternoon. His father had taken the only other key that they had; there was no secret key hidden under the welcome matt, or beneath a fake rock. 

He’s locked out of his own home, and his key is in the hands of whoever had attacked him. Kyle’s stomach twists, and he’s suddenly sick. He pushes the car door open, the seat-belt keeping him in the seat, and leans over, retching onto the curb.

Tears spring to his eyes, and he’s powerless to keep them from falling. Powerless to stop what’s happening. The hands are back, the knife at his throat, the hardness of an erection pressing into the small of his back, the breath, hot at the back of his neck. 

Part of him knows that it isn’t real, that it’s not happening now. That he’s in Maria’s car with Michael, but the memory of what happened to him earlier that night is overwhelming and it feels like it’s happening to him all over again, and he can’t make it stop, can’t make any of it stop.

“Shit,” Michael’s voice is quiet. His hand on Kyle’s shoulder, pulling him back into the car, body reaching across him to slam the door shut, brings Kyle back to the present, pushes the memories away.

Kyle’s shaking. He’s cold. Hot. Feels like his stomach’s been turned inside out. He raises his eyes to the rearview mirror, catches Michael’s gaze there and is unable to hold it. He looks at his lap, at his hands clasped tightly together, knuckles white.

“Fuck,” Michael breathes the word out, puts the car into gear and speeds away from the curb, away from Kyle’s dark, empty house. 

“I can’t leave you home alone like this,” he mutters. “Maria would kill me. Izzy would have me for dinner. Max would give me that stupid disapproving, brooding frown of his.”

Michael’s not looking at him, but Kyle can feel the teen’s disgust like it’s a living, breathing thing between them. It makes him want to disappear, turn invisible, or maybe drop down through the bottom of the car and keep on dropping down forever. 

Kyle leans against the door, and lets his eyes close. He wraps an arm around his stomach, wishing that it would stop trying to turn itself inside out. He aches, all over, and is finding it difficult to sit still, finds it impossible to make the images that are repeating themselves over and over in his mind go away. 

He’s going to be sick, again, doesn’t know how to communicate that to Michael so that he can pull the car over to the side of the road and let him out. Michael must be reading his mind, or maybe he can see how sick he is, because he pulls to the side of the road, and Kyle doesn’t even wait for the vehicle to come to a complete stop before he pulls the door open and hangs his head out to heave, though there’s nothing left to come out of his stomach, and all he’s puking up is bile. 

“You done?” Michael asks, jaw working in anger. 

Empty, Kyle’s stomach clenches painfully. He heaves once more, and nothing, not even that egg yellow bile comes spilling out. He groans, tries to will his stomach into submission, because this can’t go on forever. Michael’s patience, such as it is, won’t last through another bout of not-puking by the side of the road, and his stomach can’t take much more.

“Maybe I should take you to the hospital,” Michael says, voice uncertain. 

“No!” Kyle shakes his head and ignores the way that the world seems to spin around him. He struggles to sit upright and slams the door shut, making his head pound.

“No hospital. Please.” Kyle grabs Michael’s wrist. It’s warm. Comforting. An anchor in the midst of his tumultuous circumstances.    


Michael frowns down at Kyle’s hand and shakes his wrist free before he peels away from the curb and Kyle sinks back into his seat. A heavy silence settles between them, and Kyle keeps his eyes focused on the scenery that they pass, letting out a relieved breath when Michael doesn’t take the turn that will bring them to the hospital. 

He’s only been to Michael’s place once before, and is under no illusions that he’ll really be welcome there, but it’s better than going to his own home. Better than facing the silence and emptiness, the fear that his attacker will return for him and violate him again. 

“It’s only for the night,” Michael says. 

Kyle nods. He’s too tired to speak, afraid his voice will give away his fear, that Michael will know what really happened to him. When he makes no move to exit the car, Michael walks around to the passenger’s door and helps Kyle out of the car, sighs when Kyle, unable to support his own weight, leans heavily against him. 

Michael grunts. “Shit, you’re heavy.”

Somehow they make it up the steps to Michael’s place, through the front door, and past the clothing and garbage that litters the emancipated teen’s living room floor. Michael drops him onto the couch, and Kyle lists sideways, lets his eyes close because the room is spinning, and he’s suddenly shivering so hard that he wonders if he’s going to break apart. The thought makes him laugh, and then he’s sobbing, and he just wants to disappear into the lumpy cushions of Michael’s couch, maybe never emerge from them again. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Michael’s voice floats somewhere above him, and Kyle feels his body being shifted, his shoes being removed, something being pushed behind his head to pillow it. Maybe a balled up tee-shirt or pair of jeans. 

“I’m going to go get a garbage can, don’t move,” Michael says, and Kyle makes a sound of agreement at the back of his throat. He doesn’t think he could move if he wanted to right now, and that’s a terrifying thought, but it’s dulled, and he’s lethargic, and Kyle isn’t sure if he ever wants to move again, because, in spite of Michael’s anger and the lumpiness of the teen’s couch, Kyle feels safe for the first time in months. 

Michael returns quickly with a bucket that he places on the floor by Kyle’s head, a glass of water that he has to prop Kyle up to drink, and a first aid kit that Maria probably coaxed him to buy. After cleaning and dressing the wound, which is thankfully not too deep, Michael leaves another full glass of water on the beat up coffee table by the couch and helps Kyle lie back again.

“Sleep,” Michael says. 

“Night,” Kyle manages through rubbery lips.

The rest of the night passes by in a blur of nightmarish images, half-formed thoughts, and mumblings. His stomach continues to expel nothingness throughout the night, and Michael’s there through all of it, grumbling and cursing, coaxing, and finally, holding him, replacing whatever had been Kyle’s pillow with his lap, fingers running through Kyle’s hair in a way that helps ease some of the pain. 

Kyle knows that Michael would rather be with Maria, that he’d rather be anywhere else right now, but he’s here, with Kyle, and, though his mind is hazy from the alcohol and his fear, Kyle finds comfort in the other teen’s reluctant presence. Knows that this is something rare, and that he owes Michael more than he can possibly repay. 

When the first streaks of pink, purple and gold color the sky, Kyle’s body finally shuts down, and he falls into an exhausted sleep that’s free of nightmares, hand resting on Michael’s knee, head pillowed by the boy’s thighs. Michael’s fingers are still twined in his hair, massaging his scalp, lulling him into a peaceful sleep.

When he wakes, Michael’s gone, and there’s an actual pillow beneath his head, the forgotten  glass of water on the stained coffee table. The garbage can is still there, but Kyle doesn’t need to use it, though he’s dizzy when he sits upright, and has to close his eyes until the room stops spinning. The water helps, as does the couple of aspirin that he finds next to the glass. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he takes a look around the room. It’s messy, but homey, and Kyle wonders if maybe he can do this, too. Find his own place to rent so that he doesn’t have to go back home to a drunken father, or an empty house with too many rooms and places for someone to hide. 

There’s a constant, dull ache that starts in his lower back and continues down through his hips and thighs, reminding him what happened the night before, what had happened to him months ago. It takes him awhile to focus on anything other than the dull ache, the disjointed memories, the fear that has never really left him since the first time he was attacked.

There’s a note on the coffee table, and Kyle snatches it up, heart thundering in his chest when he realizes that Michael’s not there. That he’s not in the bedroom, or the bathroom, but that he’s left Kyle alone to go to work, promising to be back in the afternoon with something from the Crashdown Cafe, that he’s told Kyle to make himself at home (or rather Maria has -- the note’s in her writing) and shower, eat breakfast, wear the clothing that’s been set out for him in the bathroom. 

He knows that his fear is irrational, that no one is going to attack him in Michael’s place. He tells himself that he’s safe, but his body doesn’t seem to be on the same page, and he sits on the couch, shaking, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, staring at the note that’s on the coffee table until the flowery letters blur together into an inky blob, and he sees nothing but the look in his eyes in that bathroom mirror at the bar. Bloodshot, filled with terror, broken and hurt. 

That’s how Michael finds him when he returns in the afternoon. Kyle’s not moved a muscle. He’s even stopped shaking. His eyes are glazed, and they see nothing, even when Michael gets up in his face. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Michael asks when Kyle doesn’t even flinch at the hand that he waves in front of his face. 

Kyle can hear Michael speaking, is vaguely aware that the words being spoken are directed at him, that he’s supposed to say something in response, but he’s safe locked away inside of himself like this where no one can touch him, and where he can’t feel anything. Michael sits down next to him, and it registers somewhere at the back of Kyle’s mind, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t acknowledge the other teen at all. 

It isn’t until Michael touches him that Kyle reacts to the other teen, who has kept up a steady stream of chatter trying to coax Kyle into moving. The loud, hair-raising keening comes from somewhere deep inside of him when Michael’s hand, on his back, slides downward, and Kyle starts to shake and rock. 

Michael’s fingers tense, but he doesn’t move his hand, and Kyle’s shirt rides up, and the sound of his keening increases, and he has to get away, but he can’t move. He’s trapped, and it’s not Michael touching him. Not Michael’s sharp intake of breath. Not Michael swearing and shoving Kyle’s shirt up to look at the dark bruising. It’s the man who raped him, and Kyle needs to move. Needs to get away. Needs to stop it from happening again. 

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no...” the single word repeats itself, increases in intensity and volume, and Kyle is finally able to free himself from the questing fingers. He launches himself off the couch, trips over the coffee table, and scrambles away from the looming figure, crawling backwards across the floor until his back hits a wall and he has nowhere else to go.

“Kyle.” Michael’s voice is hoarse when it finally breaks through Kyle’s mantra. He’s kneeling in front of Kyle, eyes filled with a mixture of understanding, anger and sorrow. “Kyle, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help you.”

Kyle wipes at his eyes, and finally stops rocking. He’s cold and his body aches, and his head feels like it’s wrapped up in a cloud. “I’m sorry,” he says, knowing that he’s inconveniencing Michael, that he’s falling apart in the boy’s living room, that Michael shouldn’t have to deal with this, because they’re not even really friends. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Michael says, a bitter edge to his voice. “Whoever did this to you does.”

Kyle closes his eyes, can’t keep the sob that’s building up in his chest and his throat from coming out. This time, when Michael reaches for him, he doesn’t resist, lets the teen pull him into an awkward hug. Michael’s warmth seeps into him, makes him shiver even harder, and Kyle wonders if he’s going to shake apart. He wants to disappear, sink through the floor of Michael’s living room, and into nothingness, because he hurts and he can’t stop the memory hands from touching him, from taking what isn’t theirs to take. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Michael says, mouth pressed to Kyle’s ear. “You’re safe now.”

“I’m sorry.” Kyle doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know how to respond to the kindness that Michael is showing him, or the gentle way that Michael manipulates him into moving so that they’re both more comfortable, and once more sitting on the couch. 

Michael doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t press Kyle to do anything other than lean against him until the shivers subside, absorbing some of Michael’s heat through the close contact. 

“You ready to go to the hospital?” Michael asks, voice quiet. He doesn’t loosen his hold on Kyle when Kyle starts to tremble and hyperventilate. 

“No,” Kyle says, voice small and childlike. “I’m not going to the hospital.”

“Kyle,” Michael starts to say, but seeing the look on Kyle’s face, he closes his eyes and nods. “Fine, but --”

“I’m not going to report this,” Kyle says. “I just want to forget about it.” But he can’t. The man has his keys, his address, and he’d assaulted him before, will probably attack him again. 

Michael takes a deep breath, and nods. “Okay, we don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to, but I want you to think about this. If you don’t report it --”

“I know,” Kyle says. He’s seen the ads on TV, has watched the after school specials about sexual assault, about the need to report it so that the person doesn’t attack someone else, but those have never been about boys, and he doesn’t want anyone to know what happened. It’s bad enough that Michael knows, that he seems to have some kind of understanding about it, and that makes him sick. Michael’s strong, and tough, and this kind of thing doesn’t happen to guys like him and Michael. 

“I know,” Kyle repeats, and Michael squeezes the back of Kyle’s neck, rubbing at the tension there. 

“What do you want to do?” Michael asks once Kyle relaxes some under his ministrations. 

Kyle wants to go to sleep and never wake up, or disappear into thin air, or run away and never look back, but he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he shrugs. 

“Shower?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, doesn’t like how shaky he is, or how small and vulnerable he feels, how it feels like the world is crashing down around him when Michael shifts away from him. 

Michael pulls him to his feet, and Kyle sways a little. He’s a little dizzy and unsteady. Michael helps him to the bathroom, pauses at the door.

“I’ll heat up dinner. Maria laid out some clothes for you. They should fit. The hot water doesn’t last longer than fifteen minutes tops. Towel and washcloth are on the counter.” Michael points everything out, and then disappears. 

Kyle cranks the water up to as hot as it will go, mindful of the time limit that Michael’s given him. It’s a subtle hint, but Kyle gets it, and is thankful that Michael’s there, that he’s not going to let him stay in the shower forever. The last time he was attacked, he’d stayed in the shower long after the hot water had gone cold. No one was there to make sure that he didn’t.

When he steps out of the shower, his skin’s red and puckered in places, the bathroom mirror is covered in a foggy steam, and the room feels like a sauna. Michael’s clothes are soft and smell earthy, like the teen. They make Kyle feel safe, and oddly comforted. 

It’s cold outside of the confines of the bathroom, but there’s Michael waiting for him. He’s got the TV on, and food laid out on the coffee table, and, though he hadn’t been hungrier earlier, Kyle’s mouth waters at the sight and smell of the bacon avocado burger and fries, and his stomach growls, and Kyle eats everything that Michael sets before him, including the side salad and the piece of pie that he’d brought Kyle for dessert. It’s filling, and the food stays down, and Kyle feels a little more human than he has in a long time as he leans back, sinking into the couch, relaxing with Michael’s hand around his shoulders to anchor him.

The TV lulls Kyle into a half doze, and he curls up on the couch beside Michael who keeps up a mostly one-sided conversation that Kyle barely pays attention to. The only thing that matters right now is this feeling of safety, and Kyle clings to it, lets it wrap around him and claim him. 

“You can sleep here tonight if you want to,” Michael says, and Kyle blinks over at him, eyes bleary. He’s lethargic, and there’s no way that he’s moving, so he nods. “I’ll take you home tomorrow morning, before work.”

There’s a knot of panic in Kyle’s stomach and it travels up to his chest, and he starts to shake at the thought of going home. The, “No,” is a whispered moan, and tears sting his eyes. He shakes his head, wills the tears to stop, because he’s tired of this. Tired of feeling weak and vulnerable. Tired of looking like a baby in front of Michael, but the other teen doesn’t mock him. Instead, he rubs Kyle’s neck in a manner which is soothing. 

“Okay,” Michael says. 

Though it’s clear that he’s confused, he doesn’t press the issue, which is why Kyle spills the story about the keys and his missing wallet, and his father’s constant state of inebriation, and how last night was not the first time he was raped; that someone, probably one of his football buddies had written his number on the bathroom wall;  the friendly teasing from his teammates that makes him feel on edge, though he tries not to let it show. By the time he’s done speaking, saying things he’s kept pent up for months now, his throat is aching, and he’s exhausted, and he wants to crawl into a hole and die. 

“The first time I was raped,” Michael says, several long minutes later, voice soft. “I wanted to die. I was just a kid at the time. One of my foster brothers, an older boy, locked the bedroom door and...” he shrugs, mouth twisting at the painful memory. 

Kyle feels like he’s been punched, and he reaches out to Michael, lets his hand fall to the couch when the other boy flinches, shakes off the look of apology that Michael sends his way. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, knowing that the words don’t mean anything, that they can’t take away the pain, or remove the bad memories. They can’t fix what’s wrong, but they’re all he has, all he can say. 

Michael shrugs. “I was removed from the home, placed with another family; I ran away when it happened again. When I was placed with Hank, I stayed, because the only thing he ever did was hit me.”

Kyle wants to ask how many times it happened, who the people were, has a blind rage building up inside of him to find all of them and make them pay for what they did to Michael. Instead, he places a hand on top of Michael’s and squeezes. 

“Did you ever report it?” Kyle asks, the sound of the TV is a dull buzz in the background. 

Michael shakes his head, snorts derisively. “Not after the first time it happened. I saw the look of pity in the social worker’s eyes, how the foster father in the next home looked at me as if I was damaged goods.”

“I just want it to stop,” Kyle says. “I want to close my eyes and see nothing, or fall asleep and dream about babes in bikinis. I want to feel safe again.”

“You will,” Michael says with conviction. “It takes time, but you’ll feel safe again, and the nightmares will start to go away.”

Kyle nods, though he doesn’t feel it. He knows that Michael is speaking from experience, wishes that he wasn’t, because no one should have to go through that kind of pain. 

“You can stay here as long as you like,” Michael says, and both of them know that it’s not a real solution. That it can’t last, because Kyle can’t hide forever, and he shouldn’t have to. He’s got to move on, somehow, take his life back, and regain what he’s lost. Though he gets the feeling that, as far as Michael’s concerned, there is no rush for him to do any of that, at least not yet, it’s been eating at him for months now, and he’s been working himself ragged, trying to beef up and make himself stronger. Except, it didn’t work.

“Thanks,” Kyle says. 

“We’ll go get some things from your house tomorrow. Let your father know where you are,” Michael says. 

“I doubt that he even knows I’m gone.” Kyle laughs bitterly. It’s been like that since his mother left, his father barely noticing Kyle’s comings and goings, and now that he’s back to drinking (he’d stopped for awhile), he doesn’t even seem to see Kyle when he is home. 

Michael seems to tense at that, but then he nods, and offers Kyle a wary smile. “This is not how I envisioned the whole roommate scenario going down,” he says. “I do have another room, we’ll move your things into it.”

“I can help out with rent and bills,” Kyle says, thankful that he hadn’t been scheduled to work today, and he still has a job to go to. “I work this weekend, and most of the week.”

It’s almost too easy, the way everything comes together as they talk. Kyle falls asleep on the couch, eyes drooping and trailing off mid-sentence. Michael places a pillow beneath his head, covers him up.

The next morning, they go to the house, Kyle’s dad is passed out on the couch, so he leaves the man a note, finds his wallet on the dresser in his bedroom, though he doesn’t find his key, and he doesn’t know if he left the wallet there, or if the man who assaulted him brought it back for him to find. Nothing’s missing from it, other than a twenty dollar bill and the condoms that he’d had in it. His stomach twists at that thought, and he tells Michael about it. 

Kyle stands at the foot of the stairs, suitcases in hand, and he feels oddly free as looks around his childhood home. Instinctively, he knows that he’s not coming back, though his note doesn’t say that. He knows that, when his father sobers up, it’s going to hit him hard that Kyle’s left, though probably not as hard as when Kyle’s mother left. 

“Ready?” Michael asks, pausing at the door.

Kyle nods, and with one last look around the room, he heads out the door behind Michael, the spare key to his car in his pocket. He’ll follow Michael, and then go to school, hopefully in time for his second period of the day. He’s still uneasy, feeling a little on edge, but knows that he can’t hide away at Michael’s, that, if he does, he’ll never leave. 

Yet, that’s what he does, hole himself away at Michael’s, looking over his shoulder whenever he leaves the sanctuary of Michael’s place. Eventually, the feeling that his rapist is hiding behind the bushes, in every dark corner, starts to subside, and Kyle’s able to go to and from work and school without being constantly on edge. 

There are moments, though, when it’s impossible for him to leave the house, when he pulls the shades down, and makes a nest out of the blankets, covering himself in them until the fear recedes. Usually, it’s Michael who pulls Kyle out of panics with a joke, or by telling Kyle a story from his childhood, showing Kyle that he’s not alone, that he’ll never be alone.

It isn’t easy, and Kyle feels like he takes far more steps backward than forward, but he knows that, without Michael’s help and understanding, he’d be burying himself within a pile of blankets and never coming out of them. Michael’s insistence that it  _ will _ get better, that he won’t always feel like he’s falling apart, keep Kyle going.

Months later, Kyle and the others head out of Roswell, on the run from the government. Kyle’s a little stronger, has fewer panic attacks. He thinks that, maybe he’s got a fresh start and can move on from what happened to him. That maybe Michael can too. 

It’s not a perfect solution, and they won’t ever really be safe while they’re on the run, but Kyle feels better, and knows that, with time, he’ll heal. It’s cheesy and cliche, but it’s true. Time does heal, and so does having someone who understands, who’s willing to listen, even if that someone is only half human.


End file.
